Snippets Swept From The Floor
by Maxie Kay
Summary: Because your hair says a lot about you, who you are and what people think about you. A series of one-shots involving the whole team. NOW UP - CH.6: Hetty Lang.
1. Chapter 1

Snippets Swept From The Floor

An NCIS: Los Angeles FanFiction

_Because nobody knows you and your secrets quite as well as your hairdresser. _

_A series of one-shots that are not entirely serious. Alright, they're not in the slightest bit serious. And for once, this should be a maim-free zone, so readers of a nervous disposition need have no fears. Until I get to the chapter about Marty, that is. Hmmm – what damage could I inflict with a pair of scissors? Will that fabulous hair emerge unscathed?_

**Chapter One: Callen**

"Mr Carl!" As ever, he was greeted with open arms. Literally. Joshua-James enveloped Callen in a warm embrace, managing to transfer a goodly amount of his sparkly bronzing powder onto his friend's face. "It's been too long. Far too long. And I mean that most sincerely." JJ placed his hands on his hips, surveyed his friend and shook his head sadly. "What did I tell you about making regular appointments and keeping them?"

"That they were essential?" Callen ventured, running his hand nervously through his short crop. It didn't look at all bad to his eyes.

"Mmm-hmmm. And it's been how many weeks since you came in?"

"About four?"

"More like six. And just look at the state of you." JJ spun Callen around so that he was facing a mirror. "Disastrous. Completely ruins the whole look. We were aiming to give the impression of being mildly intimidating, weren't we?" JJ was under the impression that Mr Carl had some shadowy existence in the enforcement end of film production and harboured secret hopes that his client might be able to open some very lucrative doors for him. "And now you look as dangerous as a florist on Prozac."

Sometimes Callen wondered why he put himself through this ordeal. But once he was lying back in the chair, having his scalp massaged by JJ's expert fingers he could feel his cares drift away on a cloud that smelt like Heaven laced with lemon-verbena, mint and rosemary and Callen remembered exactly why he kept coming back to JJs salon. Because there was nothing quite like it. This was his one escape, his one indulgence in what was otherwise a pretty frugal existence. While he was content to own less possessions than the average American pet, it was a different matter when it came to his hair. Only the best would do.

Over the years, Callen had spent a small fortune on his hair: regular appointments with JJ, expensive shampoos and conditioners, hair brushes made with the finest boar's bristle and by a company with a Royal Warrant to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, no less. And it was all worth it. He was worth it. Because hair was unique – it let a man say something about himself. It told people exactly who you were. You didn't need to have an identity when you had a hairstyle that said it all. And that was comforting, when you had no idea who you were.

"You've been skimping on the conditioner too, haven't you?" JJ remarked. "Wash and go is all very well when you're in your twenties, but a man of your age and in your position has to start respecting his hair. It won't be here forever, you know."

"What do you mean?" Callen sat bolt upright in the chair, spraying soap suds all around him. "I've got a great head of hair. Full coverage, no thinning, no receeding hairline. Don't I?" Suddenly, he was worried. Who the hell would he be without his hair?

JJ reached out a hand and pulled him back down into the chair. "You've obviously got some sort of magic mirror in your bathroom, then. One that tells you exactly what you want to hear." He finished rinsing Callen's hair before wrapping a fluffy towel around his head and leading him over to the cutting station. "Mr Carl – how long have we known each other?"

"Ten years?" Callen guessed.

"And have I changed in that time?"

Callen bit back his immediate response, which was that JJ sure as hell had, given that Joshua-James had been Jennifer-Jane when they first met. The gender reassignment surgery had been a long and often painful process. "Well, yes. Of course you've changed."

"Hallelujah. Mr Carl - I've got news for you. You've changed too. Look."

His gaze drawn inexorably to the mirror, Callen looked on in horror as JJ pointed out the subtle changes in his hairline. "It's probably gone back about half an inch. But don't worry – it's still a strong look and with your bone structure, you can carry it off. Or you could always grow a fringe – sort of sweep it over to one side, you know? Hide what's no longer there?"

"And look like Justin Bieber? I don't think so." Good God, even Mr Carl had some pride, which wasn't easy when you were lumbered with a name like that. Callen still wasn't sure who had come up with that cover-name, but he had his suspicions. And one day the guilty party would be brought to justice.

"We could always add some low-lights, make it look like your hair is thicker?" JJ mused, clearly on a roll now.

"What are you trying to tell me?" Callen sunk back into the chair and watched with considerable horror as JJ produced a hand-mirror and proceeded to angle it so that he could show Mr Carl exactly where his hair was starting to look less full – there was no way either man was going to say the dreaded word "thin", far less mention the possibility of imminent bald spots.

_Oh God – I look like a teddy bear that's been hugged too often. _Callen tilted his head from side to side, trying to assess how bad the damage was. No matter which angle he tried, there was no doubt that there were a couple of areas where his hair was not covering his scalp quite as thickly as it had done in the past.

"How long?" he asked in hollow tones. "How long before I'm bald?"

JJ batted him lightly on the side of the head with the towel. "Stop being such a drama queen, Mr Carl. You're not going bald. Yet. You've probably got at least another 10 years before you need that prescription for Rogaine. Or there's always the possibility of a hair transplant. Look at how Matthew McConaughey's career burst back into life when he got his new hair."

"You're so reassuring, JJ."

"I aim to please. So – what'll it be then?"

"The usual," Callen said firmly.

"I can't persuade you to change? Maybe be a bit more daring?"

"JJ – I lived through the eighties and early nineties, which were basically the years that taste forgot. I'd quite like to forget them too. I've been there with bad hairstyles - I even had a mullet, for crying out loud. I'm through with all that. I just want my usual."

"You could still stay short but go for more of a boyish vibe? You know – introduce some movement, use a little bit of gel – distract the eye from those laughter lines?"

"I've told you before I'm not interested in Botox."

JJ laughed. "That's what they all say, Mr Carl. Until they hit forty five and then they come running back to me. I could do you a good deal, you know? Maybe throw in a complimentary waxing?"

"I'm still not interested, And I'm a long way off forty-five." Callen pretended he hadn't heard the snort of disbelief that greeted this last statement. "Just the usual, alright?"

"Have it your way. So, that'll be the modified buzz cut and an all-over application of Clairol Light Ash Brown?"

Callen nodded. JJ was the only person in LA he trusted with his secret. It had been a hell of a shock to realise he was going grey, and while George Clooney carried off the look with considerable aplomb, Callen knew he was not quite in that league. Hence his regular visits to JJ.

"Just remember not to leave it so long next time," JJ advised as he mixed up the dye. "Your roots were terrible."

When he left the salon a couple of hours later, Callen looked and felt like a new man – one with a full head of brown hair, with subtle hints of dark gold. JJ had been right about those low-lights after all. But there was still no way he was growing a fringe.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Sam**

_Short and sweet (I hope!) _

_A little slice of family life with the Hannahs._

"Daddy? When can I shave like you?" Crosby stood on the bathroom stool and watched in fascination as his father drew the razor smoothly down through the foam that covered the bottom half of his face.

"Not for a few years yet."

"How many? I want to know." The little boy leaned forward, so that his nose was almost touching the mirror and his breath fogged the glass.

"Well, that's difficult to say. I was fourteen, the first time my dad- your Grandpa- taught me how to shave." Sam smiled fondly at his son, remembering the feeling of being seven and desperately wanting to be older. But what could possibly be better than to be seven, and to be loved and to feel secure and happy?

"When I'm fourteen, you can teach me to shave. Okay?"

"That's a deal."

Crosby ran one finger through the foam on Sam's face and then drew it carefully across his upper lip, so that he had a soapy white moustache. "I look like Marty!" he crowed delightedly. "He's got a dog, you know."

"I know," Sam said patiently .They had this conversation at least once a week, so he had plenty of practice.

"If we had a dog…" Crosby continued blithely.

"Which we don't," his father reminded him pointedly. "And we're not getting one either."

"I know. But- if we did, I could teach it tricks, couldn't I?"

"You could teach Bobby tricks."

Crosby ignored him. "And, if we had a dog and someone farted at the dinner table, we could say it was him!"

Despite himself, Sam smiled. "Maybe that's what Marty does?" Father and son sniggered happily at this idea.

Denise stuck her head round the door. "Do not encourage that child!" she chided. "He's bad enough without you making it worse."

"Daddy's going to teach me how to shave!" Crosby said happily.

His mother took one look at the white moustache and blanched. "Not right now, he isn't." She grabbed a towel and wiped her son's face clean, ignoring his protests. "Sam- what are you thinking of? He's only seven and you want to hand him a razor? Sometimes I don't think you've got the sense you were born with."

"I said when he was older. Like fourteen," he protested.

Crosby emerged from the towel smiling. "I'm going to be a SEAL when I'm grown up. Like Daddy."

"That's my boy," Sam replied absently, engrossed in carefully shaving the tender area between jaw and neck.

"Mommy? Next time I have my hair cut, I want it like Daddy's."

Sam narrowly avoided cutting right into his neck and severing an artery. His eyes met Denise's in the mirror, with twin expressions of horror on their faces.

"I knew this would happen," she fumed. "I told you it would happen, didn't I?"

"You told me."

"And what did you say?"

Sam sighed. "I said I'd deal with it when it happened."

"And?"

"And it's happened and I'll deal with it."

"Make sure you do. I am **not** having a child who looks like he's got some tragic illness, do you understand?" Denise glared at him.

"I understand." Sam closed the door behind he and sat down on the toilet. "We need to have a little talk, Crosby. You see, you can't have a shaved head like mine." He pulled Crosby close, so that the child was standing between his legs, their faces at the same level.

"Why not?" Crosby tilted his head to one side and regarded his father gravely. "I like your head. It's all nice and shiny." He reached out and rubbed his father's skull affectionately.

"Because you're a little boy. Once you're a man, you can decide for yourself. But in the meantime, you could have a cool haircut like Callen's?" Sam suggested hopefully. Crosby adored Callen. It seemed like a safe bet.

"Naw. He looks like GI Joe. That's boring." Crosby said dismissively and thought for a moment, his face screwed up in concentration. "I know! I could have my hair like Marty's, Daddy!" He hopped excitedly from one foot to the other. "That's what I want, Daddy. If I can't look like you, I want to look like Marty!"

Sam sighed wearily. This was like his worst nightmare come true. He stood up and opened the bathroom door.

"Denise? We've got a problem. You're just going to have to get used to having a bald child."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Kensi Blye**

_And for some reason, this one refused to be funny. I guess you might call it bittersweet…_

Kensi had the sort of hair that stylists adore: thick and biddable and with a natural wave, it looked good however she wore it and had the benefit that it could be put into a number of different styles that transformed her appearance. And she took good care of it – brushing it one hundred times every night, nourishing it with conditioning masks. There was a full shelf full of hair products in her bathroom cabinet and the counter was crowded with her hairdryer, heated rollers, straighteners and curling tongs. Because taking care of her hair was a serious business to Kensi.

"You have to let me know who your hairdresser is, "Nell begged. "My salon is closing and I need a recommendation. And your hair always looks so good, so I knew I had to ask you – because you'd know all the best places. So, who do you recommend?"

Kensi looked abashed. "I wish I could help – but I never go to the same place twice. You can't have a routine when you're an agent. Not even when it comes to your hairdresser. So I just move around."

"Okay, I can see that." Although it seemed to be a slight bit of overkill, Nell thought. Surely just scheduling your appointments on different days of the week or even just at different times would be sufficient? "Well, that's even better, in a lot of ways. It gives me more choice. So, who do you reckon gave you the best cut? And what about colouring and blow-drys? And who would you absolutely avoid in the future?"

"I'll get back to you on that," Kensi promised. "Only I'm really behind on these reports right now." She flashed Nell a quick smile and dashed off to the safe haven of her PC.

"Funny," Nell thought. "It's like she really doesn't want to share these names with me. How mean! She's obviously got this really great stylist and she doesn't want anyone else to know about it. I never thought Kensi would be like that. Just shows what a bad judge of character I am." Pursing her lips in a thin line, Nell went back upstairs in a thoroughly black mood.

Kensi kept her head down until she heard the Ops doors shut automatically behind Nell. Only then did she lean back in her chair, exhaling the breath she didn't even know she'd been holding.

"Liar."

She whirled around and stared at Deeks. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Do too. You told poor Nell the biggest load of bull since Hetty spun that story about how Callen and Sam learned to trust each other. And Nell actually bought it. I bet you didn't even have your fingers crossed behind your back to ward of bad luck, did you?"

And suddenly Kensi remembered a night when they'd drunk too much and played that stupid game of confessions and her heart sank. She'd kept it a secret for over twenty years and she had to go and blurt it out to Deeks? "Don't tell, okay? I'll let you drive any time you want?"

"It's nothing to be ashamed of." He looked across the desk at her. "Really. I'm not making fun of you. I understand." And his voice was sincere and as for the look in his eyes… for a moment Kensi felt decidedly giddy, which was strange, because Deeks was only her partner, nothing more and she wasn't even remotely attracted to him. Even if he did have fabulous hair.

"It's completely abnormal to have a phobia about hairdressers!" she yelled. The resulting silence was deafening and you could have heard a hair-pin drop. Kensi knew that the entire staff of NCIS Los Angeles were looking at her and laughing. "Oh God – look what you've done now. I knew I shouldn't have told you."

Kensi buried her head in her hands, trying to block out the world, but a hand insinuated itself into hers and a familiar voice started talking.

"Come on. We're going out for a coffee."

And for some reason, she trusted Deeks enough to let him lead her out into the sunshine.

"Feel better now?" They were sitting in a café that overlooked the ocean, so close that the ozone competed with the aroma of the coffee.

"A bit." Kensi stared hard at the ocean, glad that there were sitting side by side so that she didn't have to look at him when she spoke. "That night – I didn't tell you the whole story about why I'm scared of hairdressers."

"I kind of guessed that." Deeks sprawled contentedly in his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him and Kensi had to forcibly drag her eyes away from the delectable sight.

"I was in third grade and I had long hair, down to my waist, and my Mom had done it in French braids that day. I can remember how proud I was of the way I looked and how clever my Mom was. And I couldn't wait to get into school and show all my friends, so I was sort of skipping along and I was just so happy."

Deeks closed his eyes and could see the young, joyful Kensi, bounding happily along, without a care in the world. It was a really cute image and his lips curved up into a smile. "And what happened?"

"I tripped. I had two left feet in those days, and my knees were always grazed. But I'd have given anything to have just cut myself. Even having to get stitches would be better than what happened." Kensi drew in a deep breath. "Because I fell against this fence. Mr Thomson's white picket fence. Which he'd just finished painting. And I got white creosote all over my hair."

_Allison Blye exclaimed in horror at the sight of her pitiful child, her head a smeary, piebald mixture of brown and white and listened to her sobbing explanation. "Don't worry darling: we'll go straight to the hairdresser's and they'll sort it all out." _

_With the implicit trust of childhood, Kensi believed her. Only things didn't quite work out that way. The creosote was impervious to everything the hairdresser tried and there was only one thing they could do…_

"So, the next day I went back to school with what was basically a marine buzz-cut. And that was the end of things for me there. Everyone laughed. Even the teachers. Luckily my Dad got a new posting that summer and by the time we arrived, Mom had managed to give me a pixie cut, so I didn't look too freakish." Kensi finished her coffee and turned to him. "So – now you know. That's why I'm terrified of hairdressers because they cut off all my hair when I was just a little girl and they turned me into a laughing-stock. And nobody wanted to be friends with me. Not one damn person."

"I would have been friends with you. Honest..."

"No – you wouldn't have. I looked like a goblin with ringworm." Despite herself Kensi started to laugh.

"Okay – then I would have beaten up the mean kids." Deeks watched the way her hair blew in the breeze. "How about I come with you next time you go to get your hair done? Moral support? I'll even pick up the bill."

"There's no need." Kensi grinned at him. "I've never been back. Not ever. I just trim the ends with nail scissors every couple of months."

"You're such a cheap date, Fern." He leaned over and kissed her and Kensi didn't care that they were sitting out in the middle of the day, in a public place where anyone could see them. All of a sudden, she didn't care about anything else at all, except how damned irresistible he was and how fine she felt.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Marty Deeks**

_This one just went completely off the rails…_

"You were at the beach again, weren't you?" Sam said accusingly, looking at the traces of sand lying in the footwell of the car.

Deeks shrugged, and a few droplets of water flew through the air as his hair swung around his head. "So? It was on my own time. What's the big deal?" He wandered into the Mission, Sam following in his wake, still complaining.

"You didn't even bother to take a shower afterwards, did you? Just came in here, dripping all over the place."

"What's the big deal? I was in the sea. That's water, last time I looked. You know – as in the stuff that comes out of the shower. It's not as if I smell or anything like that."

"You do, actually." Nell stopped in her journey across the floor. "You smell like the sea, and sunshine and fresh air. It's lovely." Her hand lightly fell onto his hair, almost against her control and she gently ran her finger through the damp strands with a sigh of contentment. "Great hair, by the way."

"Thanks Nell. See Sam - I told you." Deeks sat down at his desk. "So what's really bugging you?" He raked a hand through his hair and Sam watched in fascinationas it sprang perfectly into place, like the guy had it bewitched.

"It's… it's unprofessional, that's what it is."

"Surfing?"

"No. Coming in here like that. With your hair all wet – it's like you don't even care." There. He'd finally said it.

"Unprofessional? My **hair** is unprofessional?" Deeks shook his head in disbelief, and Sam watched incredulously as his hair sort of bounced around merrily as if it was in a shampoo commercial. It wasn't natural – well, that was the problem – it clearly **was** natural. He'd literally watched it dry gradually since Deeks had come in that morning and his hair just naturally went into that dishevelled but artfully perfect look, like the hirsute equivalent of some sheepdog doing an obedience class. Maybe the damned stuff was bewitched – because this wasn't normal. Nobody had hair like that unless they really worked at it.

"Yeah. It is."

"So, when I'm out there protecting your back, you're not worried about how good a shot I am, you're worried about what the bad guys will think about my unprofessional hair?" Deeks rose to his feet and Sam watched as a shaft of sunlight seemed to light him from behind, making his hair shine even more golden. This clearly wasn't right. It was as if the guy travelled around with his own set of special effects.

"You look like a surfer."

"So? You look like you beat people up for a living. Big deal." Once again, Deeks shook his head and this time Sam could have sworn that his hair moved in slow motion.

"It's fluffy. You've got fluffy hair. And I don't trust fluffy hair. It doesn't give the right impression."

"No,it's not fluffy, " Deeks said patiently. "It's bed-head hair. And that makes women imagine me in bed. Which is kind of cool. But you're jealous. That's it – you're jealous of my hair. You wish you had hair just like mine, don't you? Only you don't actually have any hair at all, do you? And exactly how does being bald equate to being professional?"

"I'm not bald – I choose to shave my head. It shows I take a pride in my appearance."

"It shows you're bald and need to wear a hat in the sun to stop you getting sunstroke. Besides, women love my hair." He smirked happily. "Look at Nell."

"Nell doesn't count."

"Excuse me? Since when don't I count?" Nell gave Sam a quick slap on the back of his head, hard enough to show that she meant business; hard enough to leave a handprint. "Are you trying to tell me I'm not a woman? That my views don't matter?"

"You're biased," Sam stated firmly, wishing his head didn't sting quite so much. Maybe that was why Deeks had so much hair –to cushion the blows. "You've got a crush on Deeks

"It doesn't alter the fact I've got great hair. And it shows she's got really, really good taste."

Nell nodded. "He does have amazing hair."

"It's a mess!" Sam roared. "You never even bother to brush it."

"It goes all peculiar when I brush it. Makes me look like Jim Carey's developmentally challenged younger brother. So I just let it do its own thing."

"You said it. Do you know, you look like that dog of yours. Sometimes it's hard to tell the pair of you apart."

"It's true." Kensi came in and sat down on the corner of the desk. "But it's cute."

Sam stared at her. "Don't tell me?" he pleaded. "Not you too?"

"Not me what?"

"You like his hair, don't you?"

"What's not to like? Didn't you notice how incredible it always looks, even after he was shot? There he was, lying injured and looking quite delectable into the bargain, but the hair was perfect? Come on, Sam - we're talking about seriously, fabulously great hair."

"I told you, didn't I? No-one can resist my hair, Sam – except you."

Callen finally decided to join in the conversation. "Admit it –you're on your own here, Sam. Haven't you ever noticed all the loving references she makes to Deeks' hair?"

"Kensi?" Sam was seriously confused by now and beginning to suspect something was up. Was Deeks 'hair exerting some strange influence over him?

Callen shook his head. "Maxie Kay, of course. She loves Deek's hair."

Deeks tried to look modest, but only succeed in looking incredibly hot. "Actually, I think you'll find she loves all of me, Callen."

"Sensible woman. But the best thing is, she's given him to me," Kensi said joyfully "I get to ruffle his hair and then run my hands all over his glorious golden body. And we have loads of madly passionate, wonderfully fulfilling sex, in a variety of exciting locations. Do you have any idea how happy that makes me?"

"It makes me pretty damned happy too," Deeks confessed. "I could do without some of the maims, but you can't have everything, can you?"

"You could have a haircut," Sam suggested. "Try to look less like a perambulating haystack."

"It's not up to him," Callen reminded his partner. "It's up to Maxie. And given how she feels about his hair, that not going to happen anytime soon, is it?"

"I tell you what," Deeks said thoughtfully, stretching just a little so that his toned stomach was clearly visible as his t-shirt rode up in a totally non-gratuitous but nevertheless highly satisfying moment for viewers/readers of taste and discernment. "Why don't we just leave it up to the readers to decide?"

* * *

><p><em>Okay – I don't quite know what happened with this chapter. Clearly we now have a plot bunny on crack. <em>

_But it's up to you – so tell me: does he have seriously great hair or not? _


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Eric Beale**

If Eric had one wish in life, it would be quite simple: to be a surfer, and all that entailed. Actually being able to stay on a board would clearly be top of the list, because every time he tried to make the move from a prone position onto his feet, something always happened and he ended up hitting the water. The fact that he had a lousy sense of balance probably had a lot to do with that. It had taken him months to master the Segway, and he'd actually got quite good at it, until he had that unfortunate accident and ran into Deeks, which resulted in the machine tumbling down the stairs. Luckily, Deeks seemed to think it was his fault and Eric wasn't about to enlighten him on that one. Because Deeks actually was a surfer, and not only that, he looked the part. To put it bluntly, Deeks was everything Eric had ever wished he could be. Deeks was tall, he was muscular and tanned, he even had that whole wide, white smile and big blue eyes. And most of all, Deeks had cool surfer-dude hair. You took one look at the man and you thought of those _Old Spice_ ads from the 1970s. Nobody had ever looked at Eric in that way, despite his best efforts. There were days when Eric wished he'd just stuck with a boogie board, but he was determined to persist. One day, he too would be a surfer. He had all the Beach Boys CDs after all.

Actually, he'd have been happy just to have the surfer hair. Cool hair; hair that gave a laid-back, "been there, done that, wish I could remember it" sort of vibe. Unfortunately, Eric did not have good hair. As a child, his mother had chopped his hair in a modified bowl-cut (the modification being that she couldn't cut in a straight line to save herself) and the result had made him look like a perambulating mushroom – it just hung around his face in limp, baby fine strands. For some reason, Eric had kept that same style right through high school, which probably accounted for the fact that he'd never even considered going to the senior prom, preferring to stay in his room. You didn't need good hair to be a computer hacker. Actually, having good hair was against the hacker job description, so Eric had fitted in just fine.

But, there came a time, as there does in every life, when Eric realised that he had to get a job. A real job, one with a regular monthly pay-packet and benefits, like health insurance. Still trying to stand up on that damned surf board was actually quite dangerous, and he'd become such a regular visitor to the ER that they were considering putting a little plaque with his name on one of the chairs. It was been surprisingly easy to get a job, he found. Who would have thought that the government would pay him to snoop around and hack into systems he'd never even dreamed existed? The other good thing about starting a new job was that it meant Eric hadthe opportunity to change his old image completely, to throw away the shackles of the past and to start afresh.

Obviously, the first thing to tackle was his hair. Eric had spent more than enough time at the beach watching the surfers, and he knew exactly what he wanted. He would have the look and he would walk in to NCIS and everyone would immediately know he was a surfer. And that would make him cool. It would give him instant credibility. All that he had to do was to get the right hair style. Simple.

"You're sure?" The stylist popped her gum and gave him a strange look. "Because we don't get a lot of guys asking for this."

"I'm sure." Eric stared hard at her in the mirror, wishing that his eyes weren't too sensitive to wear contacts. He'd tried, but just spent the whole day crying. "You can do it, right?"

"Oh, I can do it… as long as you want me to."

"Go right ahead." He trusted her. Alvis Cormodale had recommended this place and she knew a thing or too when it came to hair. "Alvis sent me," Eric confided. "She said to mention her name and you'd know what to do."

"Okay, honey. Whatever you want."

It took longer than Eric expected, but that was alright. If this was the price he had to pay to be accepted, then that was fine. What was one afternoon when it would usher in a whole new world of opportunity? Only it didn't quite work out that way.

"I look like Harpo Marx!" The loose, shaggy perm he'd been expecting had resulted in a riot of corkscrew curls. Eric could have cried. He'd been hoping for cool and he ended up looking like a clown. A dumb clown.

"I tried to warn you. Fine hair like yours often reacts to the perming lotion like this. But don't worry – we can fix it." There was no way she was having him walk out of the salon looking like that – he'd scare the customers away in droves. "You just let me sort it out for you."

Eric sat in a numb daze and watched as she set about with scissors, cutting away an good six inches of hair, and then clipping the back and sides. Finally, came the liberal application of wax and it was complete. He had a completely new look.

The stylist stood back and surveyed her handiwork. "Well?"

It was different. It was certainly different. It wasn't quite what Eric had been hoping for, but it was… mildly retro? Individual? Stylish?

"I look like Buddy Holly crossed with Michael Cain!" Eric crowded delightedly. Two very cool guys, even if one was dead. And nobody messed with Michael Caine, especially when he was Harry Palmer. Maybe nobody would mess with him? Okay, Eric realised that he still looked nothing like a surfer, but seeing he couldn't actually surf, what did it matter? It was just a pity he'd thrown out his entire wardrobe and replaced it with board shorts and loose fitting casual tops.

Most of all, Eric was dying to show his new look of to Alvis and find out what she thought. She was his inspiration and she was waiting for him back at the apartment block.

"Alvis! Look at the great job they did with my hair!" Eric walked a little taller, held himself more erect and the self-apologetic air had completely disappeared.

Eighty-seven year old Alvis beamed happily at the happy, confident young man who strode proudly into her room and knew that his new job was going to go just fine. All that had been required was to give him a little bit of self-confidence. It was funny, the difference a haircut could make, she thought. "Don't you look handsome?" she crowed, and kissed him. It was the first time any woman, toehr than a close relative had ever kissed Eric.

Eric visited the salon religiously, making an appointment every three months, and each time he went, he remembered the wise woman who had sent him there. Alvis had died just before her ninetieth birthday, but he remembered her every single time he looked in the mirror, because she'd literally changed his life. And his life was pretty great now, even if he didn't have great hair like Deeks. He had his own hair, and his own style and he was happy with that. If only Deeks would stop inviting Eric to go surfing with him, life would be almost perfect.


	6. Chapter 6

**Snippets Swept From The Floor**

**Chapter Six: Hetty Lang**

For as long as anyone could remember, Hetty had always worn her hair in the same style. Childhood photographs confirmed this, although of course she wasn't actually known as Hetty back then. Over the years, tHer identity had changed many more times than her hairstyle ever had. Apart from the months immediately following her birth, when she had sported a jaunty head of dark curls, Hetty's short bobbed hairstyle had been one of the few constants in her life. While other agents had cut, dyed and curled their locks to correspond with a change of cover, Hetty had no truck with such frivolities.

"My hair is hardly the most memorable thing about me," she had informed one hapless superior, who had the temerity to suggest that Hetty's trademark bob should be substituted for what he referred to as 'a poodle cut' for a new operation. The very name was enough to make her feel slightly ill. "And I have no desire to be anyone's lap dog, thank you very much."

Funnily enough, after that rather withering put-down, that was the end of the matter. And her boss soon moved on. Rumours that his departure had been hastened by her uncompromising attitude not only to her hair, but to several other of his ideas were only that – rumours. Hetty certainly wasn't about to dignify them with a response, no matter how true they might be. Of course, Hetty knew she was distinctive and she began to take a perverse pleasure in making herself even more so by refusing to change her look. The years came and went and she remained the same – immutable and invincible, scarcely seeming even to age.

It was not that a change of coiffure was not mentioned by several other people over the years, because it most certainly was. Hetty had lost count of the number of alternative styles that were proposed for her: shags; urchin cuts; the infamous _coupe sauvage_ of the late 70s; even something called a 'Rachel'. She turned down each suggestion with a smile. Fashions came and fashions went and Hetty's hair remained the same – a constant in a changing world. It was neat and practical, and that was the most important thing, surely? So why did so many people try to change her? Each time a new hairstyle was suggested, Hetty dug her heels in just a little harder.

If she remembered correctly, she had been working as Tatyana when one woman almost changed her mind. The look was still casual, but rather more stylish. And perhaps it was time for a change? But in the end she decided that while it might work for Lady Diana Spencer, it wasn't really Hetty Lang or Tatyana Miller. Or perhaps she had been Annabel Janssen at that time? It was getting hard to remember. As she got older, Hetty realised that it might actually have been useful to have a different hairstyle for each identity, just to try and keep track of things a little more efficiently, but it was too late now, and she was too old to change.

She did briefly toy with a change of image when the grip of the Soviet bloc was finally loosened and one particularly memorable night in Berlin, in the celebratory atmosphere of the dismantling of the wall, she was almost persuaded. Almost – but not quite.

"It is not particularly exciting, Sylvia," her friend had protested.

"I don't want excitement. I want a quiet life."

"A change would do you good."

Hetty (or Sylvia, as she was at that point in time) had gestured to the crowds thronging the streets, rejoicing in recent events. "Isn't this change enough?" She was very conscious that her whole world had shifted upon its axis and that people like her, old-school spies, were rapidly becoming redundant. There was a saying – 'mutate or vegetate'. Perhaps it was time to consider how she could adapt to this new world order? Another change of name would probably do the trick. But her hair would stay the same. You needed a little consistency in a time of flux, after all. And if it was good enough for Anna Wintour (a woman who was clearly no stranger to the surgeon's knife) then surely it was good enough for Hetty Lang – or whoever she happened to be, at the time?

So, here she was, sitting in a salon and looking in the mirror once again, as a young girl stood behind her, scissors at the ready. "Just a little off the ends, please." No colour, no extensions, no elaborate blow-dry. All Hetty wanted was a simple trim. Why make things more complicated than they need be? She had always known there was no point in trying to make a silk purse out of a pigs ear. She was what she was, even if she wasn't always who she was. And her hair remained the same, just as it always would. Tidying things up – that was all that was required. Would that one could deal with everything in life a simply and effectively.

"I can do that." The girl looked at her curiously. "Cool style, by the way. Kind of a fusion, isn't it?"

"A fusion?" Hetty wondered if she'd heard correctly.

"Yeah. I go to film school at night. Watch a lot of movies – and I mean a lot. Old movies mainly. And your hair – it got me thinking." She cut as she talked, and her movements were fast and economical, something which Hetty approved of. "Henry V meets Cleopatra, right?"

Hetty looked at her in astonishment. "You are a very perceptive young woman." Nobody had ever even come close to guessing her inspiration before – the incredible skill of Olivier and the peerless beauty of Taylor, both captured on film at their peak of artistry.

"I just like movies." The girl shrugged. "And I like your hair. It's cool and really funky. Plus, it suits you." She studied Hetty's bangs. "Is that short enough for you?"

"That'll do nicely." Hetty left her a large tip and took careful note of her name. You never knew when an observant young woman like that might come in very useful – someone who could make causal leaps and who was not bogged down by prejudices. Good agents came from all sorts of different places and came in all sorts of different shapes and sizes, as she had good reason to know.

Walking out onto the street, Hetty had a new swing in her step. "Funky." She mulled the word over in her mind. "It seems that I'm funky. And cool. Well, that's not bad for an old bird like me." It had taken a long time, but finally someone appreciated her hair.


End file.
